The Shame of Love Poetry

A thousand sonnets written by deaf men
To sullen women who refused to speak
The beauty of those lonely poets when
Those men could only think or sing or seek
In all those loves the beauty that still drives
The men to recreate all of those loves
In songs or sonnets, concubines or wives.
The poets see them as flowers or doves,
When all these muted women ever see
In these, their poets grotesque swine or goats--
Never their beauty, just the fatal flaw
Of sensitive souls, when no real man dotes
On women that strange way, for if he does
Something must be wrong with him--nothing grows
From such a weak and ugly, damaged seed.
Nothing but a winsome poem can grow
In the polluted soil of women
Who must be right, as this poem does show:
These men have poor choices for seed or pen.